The earth is round, the sky is
blue, and Kristen Stewart smokes Camel filters and writes shitty, embarrassing
poetry.

In an interview with Marie
Claire, a perpetually
disheveled Stewart, 23, sits on a "sofa draped in a Navajo blanket in front of a
cedar trunk–cum–coffee table in her tiled living room with dazzling views of
Los Angeles" and shares her thoughts on life, love, and acting, all whilst chain
smoking and juicing
carrots.

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Stewart tells the reporter she believes that love is like, really
complicated:

You don't know who you will fall in love with. You just don't. You
don't control it. Some people have certain things, like, 'That's what I'm going
for,' and I have a subjective version of that. I don't pressure myself … If you
fall in love with someone, you want to own them—but really, why would you want
that? You want them to be what you love. I'm much too young to even have an
answer for that question.

But she also believes that working through the complications and love
and life via poetry are "essential to her sanity." Then she shares
a poem she wrote on a road trip to Texas last year, prefacing her reading
with, "Oh, my God, it's so embarrassing. I can't believe I'm doing
this." And yet, even though she can't believe it, she still does it.

My Heart Is A Wiffle Ball/Freedom Pole

I reared digital moonlight You read its clock, scrawled neon across that blackKismetly … ubiquitously crest fallen Thrown down to strafe your foothills …I'll suck the bones pretty.Your nature perforated the abrasive organ pumps Spray painted everything known to man, Stream rushed through and all out into Something Whilst the crackling stare down sun snuck Through our windows boarded up He hit your flint face and it sparked.

And I bellowed and you parked We reached Marfa. One honest day up on this freedom pole Devils not done digging He's speaking in tongues all along the pan handle And this pining erosion is getting dust in My eyes And I'm drunk on your morsels And so I look down the line Your every twitch hand drum salute Salutes mine …

While there's nothing inherently
wrong with Stewart or anyone writing shitty, embarrassing poetry, shitty, embarrassing poetry
does not belong in Marie Claire. It belongs in pathetic emails sent in the
middle of the night, hand-written notes dropped off on doorsteps when the
recipient refuses to answer phone calls, MFA seminars, and anonymous Thought Catalog
submissions.

But none of this embarrassment
matters because Stewart believes that if you're "operating from a genuine place,
then you can't really regret anything." Even wiffle ball poems.